A Game of Chance
by EasternViolet
Summary: After Nathaniel Howe investigates the Primeval Thaig near Kirkwall, Varric Tethras wants to hear the story about the other Warden in his company. One-shot, for Shakespira.


_a/n _

_A very long time ago, in a galaxy far away… I gifted Shakespira, author of my 200__th__ review, a one shot, of her direction. Her request was simple: something with Varric and Nathaniel. I'm not going to look back and see how long ago that was. It was months and months ago. This request has haunted me ever since, as I tried to come up the right scenario. The muse dogged me for a very long time. And the more I worried that time was slipping away, the less inspiration I had. (Isn't that the way?) So, the muse ended up popping this little idea in my head. It was a bit of a plot twist from my first fic In Her Mind's Eye, which I carried over to __Andraste's Key__. It's a tad spoilerish, but you do not have to be at all familiar with either fic to follow this. I hope you enjoy Shakes! Thanks so much for following my writing. Your support means much to me!_

_A huge thank-you to **Clafount** for her beta magic. _

_Bioware owns all. _

**A Game of Chance **

_For Shakespira_

"Stop right there."

The dwarf raised a well-worn hand, which until that moment, had been firmly clenched around the handle of a pewter tankard. Despite the nicks and scars that crossed each knuckle, Nathaniel noticed that his nails were meticulously manicured. The calluses on his right hand immediately betrayed his occupation. Even though ink stained the sides of his fingers, Nate recognized the hands of an experienced archer.

He folded his hands together and leaned forward on the rough table, waiting for the dwarf to prompt him on, unsure for the reason behind the interruption.

The dwarf had a gleam in his eye, suggesting that he thought the Warden's story was worth repeating. Back at Warden Headquarters in Denerim, Nathaniel was accustomed to delivering situation reports that were succinct and without flourish, but the dwarf required an excessive level of detail that Nate was unaccustomed to providing. It was not often that Nathaniel indulged in sharing tales from the road, and he certainly enjoyed any opportunity to promote the Warden's efforts, especially since the Blight had ended years ago. But Nate was having trouble understanding what Varric expected of him. Why did the look in Temmerin Glavonak's eye matter as he set the charges to the explosives? And Nathaniel wasn't able to recall the exact expletive he used as he pierced the genlock in the eye with an arrow, and could not understand why that was of any significance either.

Varric Tethras seemed to have bottomless patience, and tended to interrupt Nathaniel's concise and economic use of words for more information, and there were hints that he demanded a tad more hyperbole. It could have felt like an interrogation, but Nathaniel equated the experience with story time before bed.

The dwarf leaned back into his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "Let me get this straight. You found the former Queen of Ferelden perched on a pillar in the middle of the Deep Roads—the Primeval Thaig, no less?"

Nathaniel now understood why his last statement raised such incredulity. Anora had been a member of the Denerim Wardens long enough for it to seem completely normal. He supposed that on the outside, her presence might seem a little shocking.

Fragments of her former past had the tendency of slipping through the cracks from time to time. Sometimes it was the way she walked into a room, or held up her head when receiving orders from the Warden Commander. Other times, it was the way her delicate fingers grasped the ivory handles of her daggers, or the grace in which she moved when wielding them.

"There was a cave in. We got separated," Nathaniel said with a shrug.

Varric chuckled. "But when you found her, she was perched atop a pillar and shot a taint-infected Ogre right between the eyes?"

"You're forgetting the part where I jumped onto its shoulders and sunk my blades into its neck." Her sharp tone sliced through the drone of conversation at the Hanged Man.

It was hard to say how long she had been standing there. He had been alerted to her presence just as Varric had developed his keen interest in the story, but it was always difficult to ascertain a precise proximity. That was the bad thing about the Warden sense. While it was a valuable skill to have, as far as Nathaniel could tell, it was one which could never be fully developed, and would forever remain convenient, but never completely useful. A useful skill would be one which would alert him to exactly how many Darkspawn were lying in wait just around the corner, and what weapons they wielded. The vague sense he was granted just left him with a constant feeling of paranoia.

"I was just getting to that."

Varric tipped up his angular jaw and Nate peered over his shoulder to see her leaning against the bar, arms crossed at her chest, a polished boot crossed over the other.

"My Lady!" A blush bloomed on the dwarf's clean-shaven face. "I was just getting the Warden to indulge in my penchant for narration. When I heard that you were also in the Deep Roads, I needed to hear the story first hand."

She arched an eyebrow. Nathaniel slid to one end of the bench and invited her to join him. Her response came as a sneer, not surprising him in the least.

"Your sister wants you to stay with her at the villa in Hightown. No need to stay _here_."

Her last word came out in much the same tone as one would utter _cesspit_ or _decay_.

"I've promised Varric a round of Diamondback with Hawke. Do you want me to walk you to Delilah's?" He immediately regretted that last statement. He should have stood and initiated the task without announcement.

Anora adjusted the strap of her quiver and rolled her eyes. "No, I can take care of myself."

There was little doubt of that. Nathaniel had watched her train, day in and day out, week after week, witnessing her transformation from a knife-wielding noble woman to a resolute warrior. She had taken to archery in the same way as she had taken to politics. She was direct, precise and hardly ever missed her mark. Within hand-to-hand combat, she was vicious, but her fluid movements still contained the elegance of a queen on the dance floor.

It was during this trip to Kirkwall, that Nathaniel realized that his study of her had intensified. From time to time he found himself both distracted, yet spellbound at the sight of her sinewy arms, taut and poised across her breast as she unleashed an arrow. Without a word, he gathered his things and turned.

She was gone.

"Hey, what about Diamondback? Isabela and Hawke will be here after dark. Anders can't wait to see you again!"

He turned back to the dwarf. "Deal me a hand," he announced as he left.

Nathaniel thought that he would catch up with her, and considered a handful of contrite apologies to offer, but when he pushed open the rickety door and surveyed the dingy street he discovered that she had dissolved into the Lowtown throng.

She did not turn up at Delilah's. He searched the marketplace, thinking that she might have paid the fletcher or the blacksmith a visit. Not only was there no sign of her sun-bleached blonde hair, but there was no flicker of recognition inside of his head, either. The fact that she had strayed well beyond his detection troubled him more. He backtracked and returned to Lowtown again, only to find that the shop keeps and merchants had started to pack up as the sun began to set behind the Vimmarks. Suspicious eyes peered from the darkness of the alleyways, elevating his worry, until he had to remind himself that she was more than capable of looking after herself.

Before panic consumed him, he stopped, hoping a rational thought might spark. There was no way that she would journey into Darktown. She found the smell far too offensive and the folk who sought refuge there tended to set her on edge—even more so than Darkspawn. It was as if she was afraid that she would succumb to the same misfortune, in the same way that a puss-filled wound might infect another. He knew that others would judge her for this avoidance and conclude that she saw herself as above the suffering of the street urchins, beggars and prostitutes. But Nathaniel knew better. She had already fallen from grace, just as he had. The fear of falling any further was palpable. Her avoidance, while cold and indifferent, was nothing more than a protective shroud.

As he turned a corner, he caught a glimpse of the Waking Sea from between the long string of mud-brick hovels. The sea called to him and with each step, he grew more convinced that it had done the same to her. His initial guess had turned into near certainty even before the faint glimmer of the Warden call tickled his thoughts. When he arrived at the harbour, he spotted a lone woman, still in light Warden leathers, sitting on the quay, leaning against a massive pier that jutted from the cold-iron sea. Dark clouds hung on the horizon. Pillars of golden light filtered to the angry water in the distance where the clouds had thinned, gilding the water as it roiled. The wind, tinged with the tang of the sea, chilled him to the bone. A storm would soon blow ashore. Few sea birds found the courage to ride the updrafts, to struggle against the gusts before they relented and surrendered. Further down the quay, sailors worked with haste to tie down what they could, coiling rope and tying knots with haste.

Her cropped blonde hair fluttered in the wind. It would never be as long and thick as it was during her brief reign. As soon as she drank the tainted blood, she undertook the second ritual of shearing her long golden braid, or so the story went. He was not at her Joining. But that was the story that had lingered.

As he took another step forward, contemplating the least intrusive way to interrupt her private moment, she turned, and looked at him expectantly. Her eyes were stunning and blue, a stark contrast against the bleak backdrop of the sky.

And then he found himself on the quay, his legs swinging in tandem with hers. They said nothing to each other. The churning sea, the gathering clouds, the dark smudges of rain on the horizon and the fine salty spray that the wind carried filled the silence, instead of the words that he struggled to express.

Anora straightened, her arms folded at her chest.

"You must think my behavior is like that of a spoiled child," she finally said. Her voice was even and clear, her words still carried the weight of a title that had long been stripped from her.

Nathaniel remained silent, knowing better than to express either honesty or deception. While she demanded his candour most of the time, silence was the gentler assent to her statement.

"I thought you were going to my sister's," he said.

She turned to him and crinkled her brow. Her full lips had pulled into a pout. "Don't change the subject, Howe. I've the courage to face a hurlock with nothing but a set of daggers. I can certainly face the truth that I made an utter ass of myself in front of your friends."

This time, he gazed into the liquid pools of her wide eyes. The fact that she cared about this detail made something flutter in the pit of his belly. This time, he allowed himself the moment to completely drink in her presence—her skin almost glowed. It took all of his resolve to not reach out and trace a finger across the angles of her cheeks, to feel their satin-smooth surface. Even the fine scars that she bore across her lip and over her brow seemed like silver threads instead of violent reminders of her new occupation. He clenched the smooth surface of the dock to anchor him to the present, although he was starting to enjoy where the current of his imagination was taking him. In a lightning fast second, his mind's eye flashed images of tracing each delicate scar with the tip of his finger, across her cheek, down her neck, down the front of her chest. He even permitted his thoughts to wander further, to trace the contour of her breasts, to feel the deep gouges of her hipbones from beneath her leather breeches. Thunder rumbled in the distance as if to chastise him for going too far.

With a deep breath, he settled back into the present. "You've worked very hard with the Wardens. I've watched your progress."

He meant this statement as a segue, but a blush bloomed across Anora's cheeks and she turned her eyes downward. With a thumb he touched beneath her chin, and ever so gently, redirected her gaze to his again and watched her take a sharp intake of breath. Before she took the chance to brush aside the compliment, he continued.

"You're a formidable Grey Warden, as capable as any in Thedas. I can imagine how frustrating it must be to only garner attention for the role you played before the Blight. You've worked incredibly hard to shed the skin of your past, to move through and beyond it. You are no longer the young woman you once were in Denerim. While I know a little of the loss you've endured, you have survived and emerged as someone quite different, yet you've managed to hold on to all those qualities that made you the Queen that you were."

For a moment, he regretted giving breath to the word. It should have remained unsaid. He watched for a flinch, for the recoil that signaled the pain of the term that represented all that she once was, the memory of her former self, of the woman she was forced to abandon. But her gaze remained even and steady. Thunder rolled a little closer this time. She disengaged and stared out at the agitated sea, the gurgle and crash of the waves had intensified. For a long moment she stared out at the angry waves as Nathaniel contemplated leaving the harbour before the rain started in earnest.

As if his thoughts purposely goaded the sky, dared it to perform on demand, the rain came. Like all seaside storms, it arrived with little warning or announcement. The first drop was followed with a downpour.

Nathaniel reacted in surprise, hunching his shoulders, holding up both palms as if to brace against the deluge. Just as he leaned forward to pull up his legs and dash for the nearest awning, Anora grabbed the open collar of his drenched leathers and pulled him to her. With tender ferocity, she kissed him, in the same intensity as the clambering thunder and whipping rain that swirled around them. She worked his mouth hard, pressing with hunger and wild abandon. Her kiss was soft and hard all at the same time, kindling a heat deep inside Nathaniel. He could not tell whether his reaction was emotional or physical, and instead of thinking on that point any longer, he drew her in even closer.

He raised both hands and gently cupped her cheeks, just as he had yearned only moments before, and paused, willing himself to pull away, to give a sliver of space between their quickened breaths. She bit down on her bottom lip, obvious that her hunger was not yet sated. With the lightest press of lip, he kissed her again, light as air and soft like silk.

Her hands clasped the backs of his. She chuckled, a deep, throaty, lusty laugh. "I'm very wet."

He pressed his forehead against hers and smiled.

Nathaniel peered over the top of his cards. Varric's face was neutral, but his fingers tapped absentmindedly against the handle of his tankard, suggesting that he was hoping someone else would make the first move. Isabela gave a smouldering, sidelong glance to Kessler Hawke, who was busy containing his own excitement and ready to announce his impressive hand to the table. Nate sensed that it was all an act, and expected the mage's betting to turn aggressive. At the other end of the table, Anders had his cards folded face down. He was busy scratching the head of one of the tavern's many stray cats. From under the table, Nate felt a cool set of smooth and boney fingers entwine with his, then a reassuring squeeze. Obviously, she had no cards worth playing, and he had to admit that he was not fully in the game either. He looked over and caught her ocean-blue stare and winked, waiting for the best moment to leave with Anora in hand.

"Too rich for my blood," Nathaniel groaned, revealing his meagre hand and tossed some coin into the kitty.

"Nate, my friend, this is a game you have to savor. You're too quick to fold." Varric said, not looking up from his hand. He flicked two cards to the centre of the table. "Hit me up, Hawke."

With deft fingers, almost those of an experienced thief, he slipped two cards from the top of the deck and slid them to the dwarf. This time, Varric was audacious in his expression of utter displeasure. With a flourish and a curse, he tossed the cards into the centre of the table and then pushed a small tower of gold into the growing pile.

"Too quick, huh?" Nate said wryly.

"Come now Kess, you're holding onto nothing. Let's get on with it," said Isabela, her tone flirtatious. With a sweep, she plucked the cards from his fingers and revealed them to the table.

He gaped at her incredulously, and tried to form the right curse, but only managed to utter a grunt and then a surrendering sigh. She poured a generous helping of rum and then pushed the tumbler with a finger in front of him, topping it off with a wink and a kiss to his cheek.

"Blondie? You still in the game?" Varric asked.

As if awoken from a nap, Ander's head snapped up. He looked down at the cards in front of him, as if he was trying to recall what they were. He bent the tops up slightly and contemplated longer. "Anything wild?"

Isabela rolled her eyes. "No bugs."

Anders frowned in thought and cocked his head as he continued to ruminate on his next move. "Pair of sevens."

Isabela sized up Ander's offering with a dismissive eye–roll and an impatient sigh. "How about you, your Highness?" Isabela asked, taking a long drink from her tankard.

The comment was stunning, even to Nate, and he noticed both Hawke and Varric shoot her aghast glares. But without missing a beat, Anora looked up from her cards, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Now we're talkin'" Isabela replied, pushing up her bandana, which Nathaniel assumed was her tell.

"Two rogues, two aces." Isabela displayed her cards proudly in front of her.

Anora tilted her head slightly and uttered an almost inaudible "Hmm."

The pirate sat back, resting her elbow on the back of her chair and gave Kessler a crooked grin.

An elbow jabbed Nate's side. Anora leaned forward and placed each of the cards on the table, one at a time. "Queen of staves, queen of knives, queen of runes and…" With a flourish, she tossed the last card on the table in front of Isabela, whose amber eyes reflected the flickering lamp light. She pursed her lips tighter in an obvious expression of defeat.

"Queen of bloody hearts," Isabela intonated. "Well… I'll be."

"What a hand…" Varric admired. "Not often you see luck run like that."

Anora cracked her knuckles. "Who said anything about luck?" She leaned to the side, and rest comfortably against Nate's shoulder. "Varric, I hear you are interested in hearing how I took on an Ogre from atop a pillar?"


End file.
